THE LOST DECADE

by

F. Scott Fitzgerald (1896-1940)

Esquire (December 1939)

All sorts of people came into the offices of the news-weekly
and Orrison Brown had all sorts of relations with them. Outside
of office hours he was "one of the editors"--during work time he
was simply a curly-haired man who a year before had edited the
Dartmouth Jack-O-Lantern and was now only too glad to take
the undesirable assignments around the office, from straightening
out illegible copy to playing call boy without the title.

He had seen this visitor go into the editor's office--a pale,
tall man of forty with blond statuesque hair and a manner that
was neither shy nor timid, nor otherworldly like a monk, but
something of all three. The name on his card, Louis Trimble,
evoked some vague memory, but having nothing to start on, Orrison
did not puzzle over it--until a buzzer sounded on his desk, and
previous experience warned him that Mr. Trimble was to be his
first course at lunch.

"Mr. Trimble--Mr. Brown," said the Source of all luncheon
money. "Orrison--Mr. Trimble's been away a long time. Or he
feels it's a long time--almost twelve years. Some people
would consider themselves lucky to've missed the last
decade."

"I know it, old boy. Nobody knew this place like you did
once--and if Brown tries to explain the horseless carriage just
send him back here to me. And you'll be back yourself by four,
won't you?"

Orrison got his hat.

"You've been away ten years?" he asked while they went down in
the elevator.

"They'd begun the Empire State Building," said Trimble. "What
does that add up to?"

"About 1928. But as the chief said, you've been lucky to miss
a lot." As a feeler he added, "Probably had more interesting
things to look at."

"Can't say I have."

They reached the street and the way Trimble's face tightened
at the roar of traffic made Orrison take one more guess.

"You've been out of civilization?"

"In a sense." The words were spoken in such a measured way
that Orrison concluded this man wouldn't talk unless he wanted
to--and simultaneously wondered if he could have possibly spent
the thirties in a prison or an insane asylum.

"This is the famous 21," he said. "Do you think you'd rather
eat somewhere else?"

Trimble paused, looking carefully at the brownstone house.

"I can remember when the name 21 got to be famous," he said,
"about the same year as Moriarity's." Then he continued almost
apologetically, "I thought we might walk up Fifth Avenue about
five minutes and eat wherever we happened to be. Some place with
young people to look at."

Orrison gave him a quick glance and once again thought of bars
and gray walls and bars; he wondered if his duties included
introducing Mr. Trimble to complaisant girls. But Mr. Trimble
didn't look as if that was in his mind--the dominant expression
was of absolute and deep-seated curiosity and Orrison attempted
to connect the name with Admiral Byrd's hideout at the South Pole
or flyers lost in Brazilian jungles. He was, or he had been,
quite a fellow--that was obvious. But the only definite clue to
his environment--and to Orrison the clue that led nowhere--was
his countryman's obedience to the traffic lights and his
predilection for walking on the side next to the shops and not
the street. Once he stopped and gazed into a haberdasher's
window.

"Crêpe ties," he said. "I haven't seen one since I left
college."

"Where'd you go?"

"Massachusetts Tech."

"Great place."

"I'm going to take a look at it next week. Let's eat somewhere
along here--" They were in the upper Fifties "--you choose."

There was a good restaurant with a little awning just around
the corner.

"What do you want to see most?" Orrison asked, as they sat
down.

Trimble considered.

"Well--the back of people's heads," he suggested. "Their
necks--how their heads are joined to their bodies. I'd like to
hear what those two little girls are saying to their father. Not
exactly what they're saying but whether the words float or
submerge, how their mouths shut when they've finished speaking.
Just a matter of rhythm--Cole Porter came back to the States in
1928 because he felt that there were new rhythms around."

Orrison was sure he had his clue now, and with nice delicacy
did not pursue it by a millimeter--even suppressing a sudden
desire to say there was a fine concert in Carnegie Hall
tonight.

"The weight of spoons," said Trimble, "so light. A little bowl
with a stick attached. The cast in that waiter's eye. I knew him
once but he wouldn't remember me."

But as they left the restaurant the same waiter looked at
Trimble rather puzzled as if he almost knew him. When they were
outside Orrison laughed:

"After ten years people will forget."

"Oh, I had dinner there last May--" He broke off in an abrupt
manner.

It was all kind of nutsy, Orrison decided--and changed himself
suddenly into a guide.

"From here you get a good candid focus on Rockefeller Center,"
he pointed out with spirit "--and the Chrysler Building and the
Armistead Building, the daddy of all the new ones."

Orrison shook his head cheerfully--he was used to going out
with all kinds of people. But that stuff about having been in the
restaurant last May . . .

He paused by the brass entablature in the cornerstone of the
building. "Erected 1928," it said.

Trimble nodded.

"But I was taken drunk that year--every-which-way drunk. So I
never saw it before now."

"Oh." Orrison hesitated. "Like to go in now?"

"I've been in it--lots of times. But I've never seen it. And
now it isn't what I want to see. I wouldn't ever be able to see
it now. I simply want to see how people walk and what their
clothes and shoes and hats are made of. And their eyes and hands.
Would you mind shaking hands with me?"

"Not at all, sir."

"Thanks. Thanks. That's very kind. I suppose it looks
strange--but people will think we're saying good-by. I'm going to
walk up the avenue for awhile, so we will say good-by.
Tell your office I'll be in at four."

Orrison looked after him when he started out, half expecting
him to turn into a bar. But there was nothing about him that
suggested or ever had suggested drink.

"Jesus," he said to himself. "Drunk for ten years."

He felt suddenly of the texture of his own coat and then he
reached out and pressed his thumb against the granite of the
building by his side.